Letters to Ferdinand
by lenfantdor
Summary: Set during Goblet of Fire. Snape is forced to write to Ferdinand, a mysterious psychologist. Hogwarts hosts a diplomatic guest, and mysteries, intrigue, and romance ensue. Snape x OC. First-person Snape, third-person OC.
1. 25 August 1994

A/N: I hope no one gets too annoyed by the short chapters. I just like having one letter at a time and I'll be posting several chapters at once. Thanks to imadoodlenoodle for being such a great beta. Enjoy :)

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_25__th __August 1994_

_Sir,_

_I would to be make myself clear on one matter. This matter is Albus Dumbledore and my strong feelings of dislike for him. _

_If you have the inclination to share my current attitude with him then, by all means, inform him. I do not care in the slightest. He'll just chuckle as if it is all one big joke. This time, I am serious._

_He served me biscuits and hot cocoa as he announced, very casually, that I would be writing to someone called Ferdinand - and on that note, it is a pleasure to meet you - because I've seemed 'slightly unstable as of late.' I find the very notion of being analysed and labeled in such a manner highly offensive._

_It is true that I may have upended a student's cauldron full of Exploding Fluid during one of my lectures, (some people call them rants. I assure you they are not), and caused the entire dissolution of my classroom. However, if anyone had taken the time to look at the complete picture, he or she would clearly notice that my actions were not disproportional to the cause of my 'meltdown,' as they so eloquently phrased it. There were extenuating circumstances; such as Ernley's potion being the only acceptable - and even then a poor imitation of 'acceptable' - one and the rest of my dunderheaded, blank-eyed morons not even being able to correctly finish the base solution. It was also the last day of term. After a full year of classes dotted with similar instances one would believe that this singular act of rashness could be overlooked. And the classroom is back to how it ought to be. And no one was hurt._

_Of course, Albus Dumbledore is not the sort of man to jump to conclusions based on a single event. I won't deny that it could be probable... It is possible... I __may have__ slightly threatened to castrate Ludo Bagman this summer at a meeting. But that's all in how you interpret my wording. What I __meant__ to say is that he was a great beater. One of the best._

_The entire situation with Mad-Eye Moody was also . . . lamentable. However, how would you react if someone referred to you indirectly as Batman? For five hours? _

_That's why I've been requested to write to you, Ferdinand. To release my 'pent-up anger and frustrations.' Because sending a stranger my innermost thoughts and feelings for psychoanalysis is going to help me a lot. _

_I told him I would rather eat my own eye balls and that he could go to Azkaban for all I cared._

_I am now sitting in his office writing you your first and final letter. _

_Dumbledore has just read this letter from over my shoulder and said that this is the first of many. It is the start of what could become a beautiful friendship and even as summer dies . . . now he's reciting haikus. This is what I have to put up with, a man who hides his cunning behind the facade of a doddering old man._

_Yours Respectfully,_

_S.S._


	2. 26 August 1994

A/N: Thanks to imadoodlenoodle for beta'ing. She's basically awesome.

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_26__th__ August 1994_

_I have been forced against my will into continuing our correspondence. _

_Ireland won the Quidditch World Cup. There has been a tax increase on the import of Arid Colombian Mushrooms. The Chinese have figured out a way to increase the strength of Amortentia. And, once more, Dumbledore assured me I can tell you anything. _

_Allow me to explain myself clearly: I'm not telling you anything. For all I know, you are Dumbledore._

_S.S._


	3. 27 August 1994

A/N: Another shorter letter. Can't really expect Snape to pour his heart at this point. Or at any point really :P. Thanks to my beta imadoodlenoodle.

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_27__th __August 1994_

_When I give these letters to Fawkes, where is he taking them? If you could provide me with your exact location I may be more inclined to tell you the truth. _

_Or I might be more inclined to kill you. _

_However, it is highly unlikely that I would choose to assassinate you. Enough is enough._

_S.S._


	4. 28 August 1994

A/N: Praise must go to imadoodlenoodle for making this chapter exponentially more witty than it originally was.

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_28__th__ August 1994_

_Ferdinand,_

_This evening I tried my hand at baking souffles. I am a proficient cook and, if you are interested in keeping your tongue, you won't tell anyone that I am particularly proficient at French cuisine. Former Death Eaters have hobbies too, Ferdi. You don't mind if I relax the boundaries and call you Ferdi, do you? Or is that crossing a line?_

_The souffles didn't rise. They were in prime form as I took them out of the oven, but after about ten minutes on a cooling rack they sank back into their bowls. They looked as sloppy and deflated as the skin under Cornelius Fudge's chin. Or chins, really. Three chins. Two on a good day, but let's be honest: He has three._

_I attended another riveting meeting with McGonagall and Albus at the Ministry. We were escorted to the Minister's own special conference room and had tea over a deadbeat debate on safety. The French ogress was in attendance along with my old comrade, Karkaroff. They also brought some professors, but I was too busy picking Mrs. Norris' hair off my robes to pay any attention to them. I did it partly to make sure everyone knew I had better things to do than try anything so futile as to voice my opinion and try to dissuade them of a Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts ("Severus, you're such a wet blanket," Minerva would say), but I also was avoiding Karkaroff's eye. _

_Karkaroff was also a Death Eater in the eighties, and a poor one at that. In the end he was caught and should have been whisked off to Azkaban, but he got off in exchange for Barty Crouch Jr. Now he is the Headmaster of Durmstrang, which I find suspicious enough, but as a citizen of Bulgaria he can't be prosecuted for teaching children the Dark Arts or for other such trivialities. Anyway, in spite of being slightly spooky, he's almost sentimental._

_Karkaroff is the sort of man who thinks you're still his friend even after trying to ship you off to Azkaban in exchange for freedom. And that takes some nerve. I almost respect him for that. Almost. I would rather have nothing to do with him and if you can't understand why, I might as well stop writing. I was mildly uncomfortable today in his presence, and it wasn't necessarily because of our history together. He had such an aura of old, Dark magic, I'm surprised he got past security. He didn't set off a single Dark Detector. Nor a single Sneakoscope. I can't help but wonder how he did that with a faded Mark. Personally, I set off seven Dark Detectors and a pocket Sneakoscope. It was absolutely mortifying; if Albus hadn't been there I suspect I would have been escorted out._

_Look at that, a full page. Don't let it go to your head. You'll end up like Lucius Malfoy. And if you think that means becoming successful, wealthy, handsome, and powerful, you're wrong. That means you'll start having trouble getting your swollen head through the door._

_S.S._


	5. 29 August 1994

_29 August 1994_

_Ferdinand,_

_An eventful day._

_I spent the morning revising an exam for my fifth years; they supposedly read Frindel's classic, Ye Olde Potions, over the summer. 999 pages of unadulterated historical terminology. Truthfully, I haven't read it myself (I do skim it from time to time), but it is the definitive 17th century work on brewery (or so they say; I can't get past the forward without dozing off). It is truly a work of art. And it's an excellent reason to ask the idiots -erm, students- undecidedly abstract, inane, and unnecessarily detailed questions._

_Question: Chapter 71, which entails the differential separation of many aqueous powders from water, presents what paradoxical question?_

_Answer: There is no Chapter 71._

_I love teaching._

_S.S._


	6. 30 August 1994

_30 August 1994_

_Ferdinand,_

_I had to return to the school today. Finally got out of that hell hole in Spinner's End. I generally look forward to the new school year. I buy new supplies (mainly bottles of red ink), make new lesson plans, practice my 'Bottle fame and brew glory' speech... This year I'm actually thinking about banging my fist on my desk many times for added emotional effect. Maybe I should even break something... No. That could be construed as "taking things too far" (quoted from a clause added to my contract after I poisoned a student in front of the class one year. I did give him the antidote, you know; it's not like he died or anything). And I don't want them to question my sanity._

_Oh yes._

_I have failed to mention my ire at being passed over for a position as the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Again. I'll never get the job. Dumbledore told me to be more optimistic. What am I suppose to say? "Fifteenth time's the charm?" I have taught at this wizarding institution for 14 years now, and yet, somehow, that's irrelevant. The students think it's because once I start teaching them how to defend themselves against the Dark Arts I'll slip back into my old Death Eater ways (because I'm suddenly going to trot down the halls casting Unforgivables at any student I lay my eyes on). But truthfully, Dumbledore is superstitious; he believes the position is truly cursed. To hell with cursed, I say. I can't stand teaching a course that most teenagers will never grasp the subtleties of. I have tried what I could to get them to remember that you should NEVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES mix wolfsbane with asphodel, but do they ever? No._

_I've also restocked my supply of detention slips. I have the first one filled out already for Longbottom. It's for 'Lack of overall intelligence.' Minerva told me if I dare try and detain the boy for such a thing she'll take it up with the Headmaster. Ah, well. I'm willing to risk it. The old man would never sack me. We all know who his favorite is: me. (Ferdi, that was sarcasm. Unless you're a pubescent boy with a scar on your head, you've no chance)._

_S.S._


	7. 1 September 1994

_1 September 1994_

_Ferdinand,_

_7 P.M. -_

_The brats are back._

_7:08 P.M. -_

_I've just given my first detention. The year is off to a good start._

_S.S._

_P.S. It was for Longbottom for 'lack of overall intelligence.'_


	8. 15 September 1994

_15 September 1994_

_Ferdinand,_

_Lucius invited me to dinner. It appears to be important and influential, as the invitation was written on that gaudy, cream parchment that feels like a pound of it could cost more than I'm paid in a month. I feel he must be up to something; he has no agenda other than his own, and he uses his Ministry ties as nooses for his enemies..._

_That's it, I refuse to endure hours on end of tedious, tinkering, lobbying. He's probably invited twenty diplomats, governors, and chancellors to have what I like to call a 'puff party,' in which no one actually communicates and everyone puffs up his own ego by spewing long-winded, wine-induced, grandiose speeches. They always seem to start with, "I am a very caring individual..." and end with "... and so that's why the Wizarding race needs to show those Muggles who's boss." You must be wondering how I cope with such pressure to partake in their revelry. Allow me to reveal my secret: I take two shots of fire whiskey and pretend they all have Down Syndrome and don't know what they're saying. It's quite effective._

_Furthermore, I feel obliged to admit my nerves are more on edge as of late. There's a hole in my gut and I'm fairly certain it's not an ulcer from the students. Merlin's pants... Maybe Potter's finally grown a pair and has decided to poison me. I can think of about seventeen potions he might have been able to bribe that bloody Granger girl into brewing which could case such abdominal discomfort. And two of those are completely scentless and tasteless._

_Probably happened last Thursday, the one day I didn't bring my poison test kit to dinner with me. Yes, I test my food and drink for any trace amounts of noxious potions. First of all, a Potions Master does not die of poisoning (how ironic would that be?) and second of all, I have my enemies. A lot of enemies._

_S.S._


	9. 30 September 1994

A/N. No copyright infringement intended.

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_30 September 1994_

_Bloody awful night._

_Dinner parties are one of the most superfluous ways of socializing, I just do not understand what it is about them that could possess Lucius to think they are an alright method to profligate his ideas. He really should just start writing little pamphlets and then owl them to people. Done well, he could have half the nation supporting him within a week. To be concise, he would like to become the British Ambassador to France. It's always something new with him; just last week he wanted to start his own nightclub._

_The Notts, the Crabbes, the Goyles, the Parkinsons, and Tiberius Flint were there among other ministry personnel that seemed to take their jobs much too seriously. The night was long, Ferdinand, and dreadfully dull. Conversation was centered on the school's Tri-Wizard Tournament amongst the men and the latest fashions amongst the women. Narcissa crooned incessantly about how chic the color cranberry was this season and how she wanted nothing more than a velvet cranberry cloak. Overpriced and trendy, I'm certain, but nothing she would wear more than twice. _

_At the very least, dinner was superb. And by superb I mean I haven't had a meal that good since the last time I was there for dinner. I really do need to ask Narcissa where she gets her House Elves. Hogwarts desperately needs a House Elf that knows how to properly roast a leg of lamb._

_S.S._


	10. 31 September 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended. Please review.

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_31 September 1994_

_Found fingerroot on sale at Spooner's Apothecary in Hogsmede. Two sickles an ounce. Is that a bargain or what, Ferdinand?_

_Seriously speaking- I think I'm losing my mind. The fact I even had to restock on fingerroot (ideally it has a shelf life of seven to nine weeks) is ridiculous. I bought enough to feed a small village at the start of term. I went into the closet this morning to prepare it for my first years (I think all this talk of 'feelings' and 'emotions' with you has made me lose half my backbone) and I couldn't find any of it._

_Contrary to the popular belief that I am accusatory and paranoid, my first thought was not that someone had deliberately taken it (who would want seven pounds of fingerroot?). I actually first made sure I hadn't accidently put it in the wrong place. Unlikely, yes, as I am a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to organizing ingredients, but I did thoroughly examine my shelves. I then checked my personal records; the only discovery I made while looking through order forms was that I had imported a very large amount of powdered arsenic a week into term. I can't fathom why anymore. It was seventeen galleons worth, so it must have been important... Well, anyway, I couldn't even find that I had bought any fingerroot. Ever._

_The thing is Ferdinand, I remember it like it was yesterday. I went to Spooner's on the sixth of September and purchased a positive shitload of it. I even used a green basket to tote it back to the castle. Minerva asked if I planned on selling hallucinogenic drugs to the students. Ha ha, Minerva, fingerroot is definitely not in any of the hallucinogenics I know of. It's much too brittle; it would never correctly oxidize the crescent mushrooms. When I got back to the dungeons, I wrapped it in wet silk and set it by the pickled frogs' legs. _

_Yet, I made no note of this transaction anywhere. Anywhere. While someone could break into the potions closet relatively easily, my office is more secure than the Ministry of Magic itself. You think I'm joking, I'm not. _

_I have some research to do. I'm off to the library to brush up on the impractical uses of fingerroot. Practical applications are all much too safe and downright boring. Someone is making a potion with my fucking ingredients and I do not appreciate it. I, Severus Snape, am the Potions Master. Master._

_Oh. Yes, the arsenic was to poison Weasley for ruining yet another cauldron. I wrote it down on the label. I suppose I must have thought I'd be doing his mother a favour._

_I really would. Sometimes I am truly impressed with how intelligent I am._

_S.S._


	11. 1 October 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended. After this chapter it's going to get more exciting, so thank you to those who stuck through the rather dull chapters. Reviews are appreciated, of course.

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_1 October 1994_

_I would just like to note that I would never ever ever ever ever EVER shag someone in the potions closet. You can imagine your own reasons for why this would never, under any circumstances, occur or what even provoked me into such a confession, but I had to say something to someone._

_S.S._

_And- I mean, given the rarity and price of the ingredients, the time I've taken to organize them, the danger of one or more of these ingredients coming into contact with each other... It would never happen. Really, I can't have been more explicitly clear._


	12. The Thief

A/N: First chapter not written in the form of a letter. As usual, no copyright infringement intended. Thank you to those who added this story to their alerts and to those that reviewed.

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The Ministry of Magic existed just a few meters below the moonlit stones of the London Parliament building and its gardens. The white crystalline image of the world above echoed that of the dark one below; the blue light of the morning filtered through the windows of the empty building, and below the ebony walls reflected the dim candlelight of the deserted offices and corridors. For a time now, the infrastructure of the Ministry had never looked finer – all foreign debts had been paid, the market was strong, and aside from a few written worries about the Tri-Wizard Tournament and its dangers, the people seemed legitimately pleased with the direction the country was taking after so may years of darkness. It was the thirteenth year in a row that national poverty had decreased by several percentages and the twelfth year that graduating students beat out international competition for jobs both domestic and abroad. As Fudge had locked his office on the way home the night before, he had even chuckled to himself about the positive effects on international relations the Tri-Wizard Tournament would have. Important political figures would be coming from both countries for the duration of the Tournament; he would have to have dinner with each of them; separately, of course. It would also be prudent to have Ethridge send the both of them gift baskets or whatever was the current decorum on the matter, one never truly knew what was considered appropriate in diplomacy. While this thought had been pressing to Fudge, it was already seven o'clock and his dinner was waiting for him on his table. He left without saying goodbye to anyone, or even checking to see if Ethdridge had gone home early or not.

It was in Fudge's haste to return home to his dinner that he forgot to lock the door to the Level One's filing room that night. In the early hours of the morning, a lone figure in all black crept inside, unnoticed. With the precision of a senior Ministry employee, the intruder snuck up the lift and through the twisting hallways until they reached said filing room. From across the empty foyer a noise like the sound of a shoe skidding over the smooth tiled floor spattered against the silence. The intruder stood outside the door, waiting and listening, eyes straining against the darkness. A loud whistle from an enchanted kettle that had escaped from Level Two startled the intruder and they gasped, pulling out their wand and casting _lumos_ with a jolt. The kettle hopped away, whistling and squeaking every two hops or so until it crossed the border of the light emitted by their spell. They looked around a while longer, extinguished their wand and entered. The room was large and filled to the ceiling with filing cabinets. Papers were strewn about the room and hung loosely out of all but the most formidable looking filing cabinets. Some were obviously charmed and protected against intruders, but, fortunately, the necessary file was tucked quietly away towards the back in an old, faded violet folder. They took the parcel of yellowing paper from within and bolted, skirting out of the Ministry like a fox in the night.


	13. 26 October 1994

A/N: The formatting seems off on this one for some reason. Maybe I'm just imagining it. Anyway, this is the last part that I have written out, so it might be a while before I update. There's about three plots in this fic that I'm trying to sort out and mesh together. Thanks for reading.

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_26 October 1994 _

_8 A.M. _

_There's a storm settling in from the west. The sky is gray with dotted with inky black clouds. The wind was particularly biting this morning; bits of parchment and other litter were being whipped around the Transfiguration Courtyard as I passed through on my way to talk with Minerva. The gales also succeeded in blowing my robes up to my waist. A pompous, third year Gryffindor actually had the audacity to wolf whistle at me as I passed... I sent her to Dumbledore for sexual harassment._

_Where was I? Ah, yes, the storm. Its precursor built up quite rapidly. One minute the sun was shining and the birds were singing, and the next there's toxic-locking clouds above the castle and it's eerily quiet. It's not natural. What could it mean? It looks like it could well be evening. And, Merlin, the trees certainly look like they're no match for the wind. I've already seen a few of them fall from up here in the library. _

_I hope the dungeon doesn't flood again like it did five years ago. While I did enjoy taking a little dip through some waist-high water to get around, it wasn't very practical to have to save the first years from drowning every time we met for class._

_Are my jokes getting any better? Dumbledore told me I needed to stop being such a "Debbie Downer." I've never had the good fortune to have met Ms. Downer, but I'd like to think we'd be kindred spirits._

_12 P.M._

_The Great Hall certainly looks really clean. Dumbledore must have really threatened to give away his wool socks to the elves as parting gifts. _

_1 P.M._

_In fact, the entire school looks pretty great. Not a single Zonko's Joke Shop bag in sight. I'm getting suspicious. I'm off to find the Weasley twins._

_11 P.M._

_As it so happens, it's not the Weasleys. It would appear that we have a visitor. Three, actually. As per usual, no one told me about anything. McGonagall insisted it was discussed during our last supposed faculty meeting and then she proceeded to make a rude remark about how I must have been out shopping for new robes. I don't recall telling her I switched tailors. Do you think she could really tell? _

_During this faculty meeting of which I received no memorandum, no head or tail of, it was announced we'd be housing foreign figures from the countries taking part in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The only notice I received was when I saw two unidentified male subjects sitting at the High Table, being introduced by Dumbledore. From the gist of his speech I picked up that they were diplomats or council members of some sort. _

_McGonagall scowled terribly at me for coming in late. How was I supposed to know we had guests? No one ever visits me down in the dungeons except for Filch. And then all we talk about is how much we despise the students and the sorts of punishments we should hand out for our next detentions. I quite like him. "Where were you?" she hissed as I passed, trying to scoot through to my seat. _

_I admit, I do feel a little bad. I suppose I should have attended that last meeting, even though all we ever do is talk about things, never completely discuss them, and then just put them on the agenda for the next meeting. It's really a waste of my time. How many times could we possibly go over detention-writing policy? Why does everyone always look at me when we talk about it? _

_I don't feel as bad anymore. Even though it did rather make the school look bad. I suppose I did walk into the Great Hall and stopped to stand and glare for a full thirty seconds to figure out why my chair was missing and what dunderheaded teacher had taken it… Minerva really should have given me a memorandum. Although I probably wouldn't have read it. I'm much too busy to read memorandums._

_As far as the visitors go, I doubt I'll see much of them. Perhaps when they take a tour of the school tomorrow or if they eat dinner in the Great Hall, but I'm usually grading or making a potion for Pomfrey in my office, and they'll be at meetings at the Minsitry. "International Unity" and all that idealistic shit they went on about in those Tri-Wizard meetings over the summer. I thought if I had to watch one more presentation on the positive long-term effects of the Tri-Wizard Tournament I was going take a light poison to get out of seeing to any more._

_Aleksandar Petkov, the one with droopy eyelids and large nose, is our Bulgarian Ambassador. He's really quite... rotund. He drank a lot of wine and had a boisterous conversation with Flitwick over goblin metallurgy. I received quite an education tonight on the processes involved. The other is named Charles Crane. He's an American; why he's here, I can't tell you. I assume it must have to do with the fact that he's American and Americans like to be involved in things which do not concern them. He was very reserved at dinner, hardly made any comment on what it was like to be the Secretary of State when Minerva asked him. While I have my reservations about letting these practical strangers reside in the castle for the duration of the tournament, I have the distinct impression that they're here for political reasons only. _

_The third arrived, as all the French do, fashionably late. I was examining the Slytherin House points vial – now that we're rightfully in the lead – at the time. I had to help her with the door due to the strong gusts of the raging storm. Somehow she had managed to stay perfectly dry and unflustered on her walk from the apparition point. Her bags, – I counted four – all pastel, followed her in a neat little row. Resisting the urge to vomit at the pastel colors, I compelled myself by social mores to walk up to her and at least keep her away from Moody._

_I asked her who she was and she looked at me with shock._

_"They didn't tell you I was coming?" Thinly cloaked disbelief appeared in the thin lines of her forehead and eyes. As I shut the door behind her, I became acutely away of my untied shoe. I felt slightly unkempt._

_I stared at the woman. Was I supposed to know who she was? She wore pale rose robes and her dark hair was pulled back into a bun under a matching hat. She had a sturdy frame. There was nothing exceptional about her. I'd never seen her before in my life, but for a moment I worried that she was one of the many brief affairs of my youth and that I was about to find out that we had a child together. I hate children, not that I know much about them. All I know is that by age eleven they're insufferably stupid._

_"Who are you?" I repeated politely._

_She went very still, a bit like a cat. "What?"_

_"Who. Are. You." _

_"Now really, your manners are absolutely horrid." Her accent slipped into the word 'horrid' and I then realized she was French. "I'm Marcelle Breton, the French ambassador and D'Arcy's senior advisor."_

_I bristled, but I extended my hand and she took it with a gloved hand and with just the right amount of firmness. I could easily penetrate into her mind, after years of servitude under Dumbledore, it's second nature to check up on new arrivals. Particularly French ones. You can never trust them._

_She thinks in English, which I find impressive as I don't know one bloody language well enough to think in it besides my native tongue. In seconds I travelled through her mind. _

_"How curious he is," she thought. "Look at his nose. Maman would find him a little too bitter… Mmm, I find him rather apathetic. On second thought…"_

_I dug into her subconscious, staring into the depths of her hazel eyes. She was rather fixated on her recent trip to the Ministry… Bad encounter with Barty perhaps…_

_"You're very curious," she stated, breaking my concentration. "Not the first legilimens I met, but certainly the first to look into my mind before even allowing me to get three feet past the door. And your shoe's untied, but, of course, you already knew that."_

_On reflection, I'm doubtful she really knew I was doing that. Luck is less of a lady than a Judas-figure._

_"Headmaster Dumbledore is on the third floor still?" she asked. _

_I only nodded._

_She grinned, looking like she knew a secret about me. "Excellent to meet you, Severus Snape. Bonne nuit." She walked tightly up the stairs, her robes swishing just-so behind her and her little suitcases and valises bobbing after._

_You know, Ferdinand, I don't recall telling her my name._

_S.S._


	14. The Meeting

A/N: This chapter is more of a filler than anything else; though it does reveal one very important little detail about Marcelle and will tie into subplot number 1. No copyright infringement intended.

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"_Lumos_," she whispered.

It had been a long time since she had been in a school, some twenty or so years ago. As an alumna of Beauxbatons Academy, she felt strikingly lost in the darkened halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For being only ten o'clock, the castle was quiet; she assumed the students, most of whom were still quite young, were asleep in their dormitories. Using the chartreuse light emitted from her wand as a guide, Marcelle ascended the main staircase slowly. As she ascended, once getting trapped by a false step, she looked at the portraits that covered every inch of the towering walls. Some slept, snoring deeply, and other watched her with interest or paranoid eyes. There was an incessant whispering noise, as some characters ran from frame to frame, gossiping with other inhabitants and pointing at her. She ignored them, even as she waited, annoyed, for a staircase to correctly orient itself. The damn thing couldn't seem to make up its mind.

_Perhaps Professor Dumbledore will be asleep already_, she thought. If LeMontre, her assistant, hadn't been so incompetent, perhaps she would have actually been on time. It was unlikely though, given the fact that Fudge spent most of their time together indirectly dictating what he would like to see come from the relationship between their two countries. By the time she was out of the Ministry and at a suitable apparition point it was already 9:15. She missed dinner and the crucial opportunity to see Amb. Petkov and Charles before tomorrow's meeting. Instead, she got to be greeted by that glowering, sheep-shagging, English _imbécile. What a welcome_, she thought, her annoyance bordering on incredulous amusement.

Now at the entryway to the headmaster's office, she hesitated. A password was needed, of course. D'Arcy had told her this morning what it was, but that was hours ago. Much had happened between then and now. Marcelle fingered at her hair, smoothed down her skirt and reapplied her dark lip stain. She glared at the gargoyle.

"You wouldn't care to step aside, would you?" she murmured, dryly. The gargoyle remained still; apparently not even enchanted enough to retort. "That's fine. I like you better silent anyhow." She sighed, racking her brains. "Blood pops?" she ventured and the gargoyle sprang aside. "Ah ha, I thought it was something disgusting…" She entered the door and ascended the small, spiral staircase.

Light leaked through the door to the office. She pushed it open; Dumbledore sat pleasantly at his desk, surrounded by little whirring knick-knacks and little bowls of different colored candies. He was reading a witches' clothing magazine and eating a raspberry tart, humming lightly. "_Bonsoir, mademoiselle_," he greeted, without first looking up to see if there was indeed someone in his office. He turned the page. "You must excuse me, I am behind on the latest trends… Did you know scarves are coming back?"

"I-" Marcelle paused, still standing in the doorway. Weren't scarves a necessity for cold weather? "I hadn't realized they had gone out of style. But then that depends what you're reading."

"_Witch Weekly: Style Edition_," he chirped with a small smile.

She looked around the room, noting with disappointment the continued excess-of-portraits motif. The portraits of these wizards and witches all slept, some even snored vociferously. "You really should be reading something less commercial, like _La Sorciere_," she murmured. "_Witch Weekly_ is rather second-rate in the arena of fashion."

"Ah. I shall be sure to do that in the future." Dumbledore nodded and shut the magazine, storing it in a drawer. He looked up at her, revealing two twinkling blue eyes. "Now… Ms. Breton, I am so sorry to have missed you at dinner. Please, take a seat. I suppose you have not yet found your room?"

"My room? It really hadn't crossed my mind… And I really must apologize. I made the mistake of dropping by the Ministry. I became entangled in a long discussion with the Minister." She settled into the cushy chair across from Dumbledore's desk. It took her a few seconds to realize to whom she spoke; the man was so honest, so warm. He had crumbs from his tart in his beard and was humming "_Frere Jacques_" as she talked – this was the man who led an army against You-Know-Who and defeated one of the most evil, radical wizards in history? To think that so many people loved, hated, and feared such an adorable old man. He radiated cheerfulness underlined by a strong determination and willpower, and, upon closer inspection, she felt his clever discernment. He was observing her rationally, she realized.

"I suppose have no problem rooming at the school," she continued, without really listening to what she was saying. She carefully prodded a bit further, testing his mental waters. No one had ever noticed before, but... better safe than sorry. "I had merely assumed I would stay in the little village –"

"Hogsmede," he put in helpfully.

"Yes, Hogsmede, for the months that I am here. I wouldn't want to get in the way."

"You are most welcome here; think nothing of it. Lemon drop?" he gestured politely to the bowl of bright yellow candy.

Marcelle shook her head. "No, no thank you." _Just a little further_. "If it really isn't too much of a bother, what with the two schools also stay-" A sharp pain suddenly filled her chest and abruptly vanished. She blinked, feeling only her own confusion. A little amusement also seemed to radiate from Dumbledore, but muted, as though his emotions were encased by a protective glass.

"As you were saying?" his eyes twinkled from behind his glasses. He knew. He had to. "I hope I didn't distract you by occluding my thoughts and emotions."

"Ah, I'm sorry?" She smiled, feigning ignorance. He might suspect but he couldn't possibly know she was an empath. She stared at him stonily, her hazel eyes hard against his soft blue ones.

He called her bluff. "You are an empath."

Marcelle frowned and examined her nails, something she did to appear aloof and unbothered. "Very nice," she complimented cooly, after a moment of inner debate. He seemed pleased, interested, and without further prodding him for confirmation, self-assured. It wasn't a secret _per se_, so she couldn't bring herself to care, but it wasn't usually something she revealed about herself willingly.

"Would you care to know how I knew?" he was smiling now. How adorable.

"Spare me, I know I underestimated you. When they said you were a good Occlumens they weren't exaggerating. Christ." She shivered, even though it wasn't cold. "I trust you won't tell the whole school?"

"Certainly not. These things need to be kept secret," he chortled, rising from his seat stiffly. "I had heard rumors, but I didn't know if they were true until you came in this room and my Aura Clock went haywire." He took a small, continuously spinning, golden clock off the wall. He handed it to her.

A single, golden hand spun around, never pointing to one red word written in script for more than a few seconds. Anger, Sadness, Guilt, Happiness, and Insincerity were a few of the "auras" around the edge of the clock. "It is supposed to be able to tell the overall mood of a room, handy for parties and the like." Dumbledore's smile lessened briefly. "But when you entered the room, you seem to affect its ability to register the aura. You inadvertently register multiple sets of emotions. Your own and, in this case, mine." He smiled at her again and took the clock back. "But in any case, I am very glad you are here in one piece! The storm outside is dreadful."

"Yes, very," Marcelle said faintly, shrewdly re-examining the man. She could still register dampened versions of his emotions, which she attributed to his skill as an Occlumens. He was the best she had ever encountered, an intriguing exception to the rule.

"We will meet again sometime to discuss this further," he said reassuringly, as though guessing both he and his prior knowledge of her had piqued her interest. "Can I show you to your rooms? They're just above the dungeons; I think you'll adore the large fireplace. Coming from the Mediterranean, we assumed you wouldn't take to the cold and rainy climate of Scotland." He began to meander to the door.

She felt no choice but to follow and play into the sudden change of topic. "Yes, I feel like I'm in Bretagne again. My family used to vacation there. I hated it. My rooms aren't anywhere near a kitchen are they? I'd really love a bite to eat."

Dumbledore turned around, several steps below her. He smiled, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. "I know just the short-cut!" he continued to walk down the steps; his gait was that of a much younger man, lacking any of the stiffness from rheumatism that was common in older wizards. "Now, my dear girl, I hope you won't mind me asking, but how was your visit with Mr. Fudge?"

Marcelle tightened her grip on the bannister. "Your minister is a very verbose man; he says what he thinks seven different ways." Her laugh echoed hollowly in the stone tower. "I'm sure you know my visit is less patriotic than political, Dumbledore. I know you picked up on that in our single meeting with Ambassador Petkov and Mr. Crane." She struggled to get her mouth around the 'r' in _Crane_. She winced as she heard the soft, guttural, French 'r' slip out of her mouth. It was always the r's and the h's.

"I believe your predicament is the entire reason your Mr. Crane is here," he said brightly, turning left, away from the staircase, leading her further down the suit-of-armor-lined hall.

"Yes, he's very persistent," she mumbled; that golden-haired asshole was the least of her worries.

"Is it tomorrow morning or afternoon that you meet with Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman?" he asked, now walking beside her. She couldn't tell if he was trying to converse with her or if it was a genuine question. She was too ashamed from her last foray into his heart to try again. The cheerfulness and curiosity she had felt from him earlier were still there, and it made her wonder if he knew how to create emotional facades in addition to mental ones. If so, it was a remarkable ability that probably stemmed from his dexterity as an Occlumens.

"Around ten A.M. You'd think after planning this little exchange for the past summer we'd have run out of things to discuss… I hope it's not a small celebration," she muttered, more to herself out of annoyance at the stupidity of the idea of sitting around a low table with little pastries while toasting themselves on what hard workers they all were. "So stupid."

His eyes twinkled. "Perhaps there is a small detail Mr. Crouch did not formally divulge to you."

"I hope you have no idea what your talking about," she stated, relieved when Dumbledore lips quirked into a mischievous smile. He stopped abruptly at an old, tall painting of Tisiphone the Fury. Her wild hair whipped about her head _It must be terribly windy in her frame_, Marcelle thought, eyeing the black snake hitting the side of her cheek. She stared ravenously at Dumbledore, waiting like a vulture.

"Good evening, Miss Tisiphone," Marcelle had to laugh at Dumbledore's blatant formality with the portrait. Tisiphone red eyes glanced at Marcelle, immediately returning to Dumbledore's face. Her jaw clenched, fingers twitched. "The password is now elecampane, is it not?" Tisiphone frowned, grudgingly swinging the portrait open like a door; she also made a point to hiss at them as they passed by.

"My God," Marcelle marveled, once safely inside the dark, narrow passage that sloped downwards, "she guards this passage like she guards the gates of Tartarus…_" _She lit her wand, wordlessly.

Dumbledore chuckled. "She frightened me terribly as a first year. I specifically avoided that section of the third floor for that very reason. But now she's merely interested in me as I am old and death excites her…" he sighed, a little weary. Marcelle blamed it on the late hour.

"I hope you haven't been looking into your tarot cards too much, Headmaster." She laughed quietly. "You might end up with a self-fulfilling prophecy."

He ignored this last statement. He stopped just before the kitchen door. "As I'm sure you'll be in and out of meetings for much of your stay, I do not expect you to be present for every meal. I've instructed the House-Elves to provide you with whatever you require. You can of course visit any classroom you so choose; I hope the students provide you with some insight with our ways here." A door opened before them, pushing warm, delicious-smelling air into the damp little corridor. "Welcome to the kitchen. I've spent many a night here, too tired to go back to bed after a late-night snack."

"Are you not coming in?"

"I had much better get to bed. I plan on knitting a scarf before breakfast tomorrow. _Witch Weekly _provided me with a lovely spell for a 'DIY,'" he made little quotation marks with his wrinkly, thin fingers, "knit scarf."

"Ah," she said, curtly. Eyebrows raised in polite, feigned interest. _Forget the fucking scarf, tell me something that actually matters_

"Perhaps we can talk again a fortnight from now? Oh! And your rooms. You can ward them however you so choose, currently they can be unlocked with a simple Alohamora. They are through the opposite door, up the staircase to the left and at the end of the hall on the right."

"I will speak to later, then." He gave her such an odd feeling, like he had some idea of what was to happen before it happened. She placed this irrational feeling on the fact he subdued his emotions to such a low level, she was deprived of her basic sixth sense. It was all psychological.

"Very good," he dipped his head at her. "_Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle Breton_."


	15. 27 October 1994

A/N: I finished this in honor of Ms. Rowling's announcement. No copyright infringement intended. Thanks to my readers and reviewers, in particular CheyRainAwesomness and LemonDropsWoolSocks for the reviews last chapter. And to AdmiralJackal's reviews from a few chapters ago because they made me grin like a five-year-old kid.

* * *

_27 October 1994_

_I've given a bit of thought to Ambassador Breton's Granger-like smugness over pointing out I was using Legillmency on her. I think she made a guess based upon my lack of immediate response. She must read people well if she's an ambassador. She also knew my name, but I wouldn't put it past old Crouchy to warn her about me as he appears to be under the impression that I will end up doing something that embarrasses the country and ruins our reputation for years. He told me this summer that he would be eternally grateful if I remained in my dungeon for the duration of the tournament and kept my ideas away from the ears or eyes of any foreigners. That, my friend, is when you know that the government does not trust you and probably keeps a secret file on you somewhere inside the Ministry. _

_This morning I went to Spooner's to see if my shipment of Indian pomegranates came in. It hadn't. For the first time in a long time, I started to do some research. I came across the idea looking for fingerroot properties, which, by the way, are few and far between. I did find that in excess they're quite poisonous, but nothing a bezoar couldn't fix. A good poison is one with a very laborious cure, in my opinion. _

_I walked all the way back to the castle, literally slamming into the American, who came from around a corner without warning. It appeared he had been for a run that morning around the grounds, as he was shining with sweat and his gold hair, fading slightly with age, was plastered to his face. I didn't think it was a very good look for him, personally, but maybe he's trying to catch the eye of the Frenchwoman. She seems like she would date a snob like him, just based off first impressions (I might add that I have an excellent intuition about these things). _

_He apologized for "runnin' into you like that." He then proceeded to slap me on the back and knock the air out of me a little._

_"Are you the groundskeeper?" he asked, examining me with his narrowed blue eyes. _

_"I," I sneered, "am Severus Snape, the Potions Master." Yes, I did actually say that. Quite proudly, in fact._

_Crane gaped at me apologetically. "Excuse me, I didn't realize you were out here to collect ingredients rather than water them." His reply still strikes me as a bit amusing, not entirely sure why. Maybe because he doesn't seem think we have apothecaries in Britain._

_I was just about to respond, when our little outdoor gathering became more diverse. Breton came from the same path Crane did, mint green robes flowing behind her as she walked._

_"Charles, where have you been all -" She froze mid-step when she laid eyes on me, looking like a student I had just caught wandering the halls at night. Some call it fear; I call it unwavering respect. "Professor Snape, good morning." _

_She's very well-mannered when she feels like it, Breton. It didn't take much eye rolling to get her a little obviously miffed; I hope she's more patient with Fudge or she'll be out of a job one day. Even I know I should be patient with Dumbledore, what with his synapses in his brain lagging all the the time in his old age._

_Crane and Breton - or Charles and Marcelle as they referred to each other - snipped at each other about some fucking meeting, I don't know, that they had this afternoon. Breton got all red-faced and serious, while Crane merely shrugged at her a bit and told her she wasn't very attractive when she was so serious. I made no point in removing myself from the conversation, despite Breton's dirty looks. In fact, I remained merely to annoy her, to let her know that she cannot intimidate me with her strange cognitive prowess._

_"Charles, yes," Breton murmured, her tone bordering on impatience, "I do understand that you need to meet with Mr. Malfoy, but-"_

_"Marcelle, really," Crane drawled, sort of patting her on the head, "you can be so- so… what's the word, Mr. Snape?"_

_"Anal?" I suggested, glancing at Breton with a subdued smirk._

_"Wonderful," he commended. "You can be so anal about this whole tournament. Just have fun. It's a big party. 'Sleep all day, drink all night' as Aleksandar put it."_

_"Someone might want to tell him the tasks are during the day," I put in, politely._

_"Petkov doesn't drink half as much as he says he does, and you keep your promises half as often as you make them. I would really appreciate more sincerity from the both of you, as mucking about these next eight months will lead to nowhere for everyone."_

_"And you need to re-evaluate your loyalties," Crane retorted, examining the gold band around his right index finger. "Skip the meeting, it's pure bureaucracy, and join me at Malfoy Manor."_

_Of course, being the upstanding ambassador she is, Breton declined and after attempt a conversation with me, flitted back indoors. Crane followed, giving her exactly what she probably wanted. Honestly, if you want a woman to fall in love with you, do exactly what she doesn't want you to do; i.e. do what you would normally think to do and not the opposite. It obviously worked for centuries before men were smart enough to figure out what a woman really wants. If this theory holds true, I'm sure Breton must be pining for me by now._

_I skipped breakfast and lunch to do some more research in the Restricted Section, but there's very little on the subject in question. It's rather esoteric, but I'm still a little surprised I found nothing in the sections on Legillmency, Occlumency, or even Divination. I saw Breton again at dinner. Because the guests skewed the usual seating arrangement, I got shoved into a seat between the wall and Breton, so I had my choice between a spider weaving it's web on the wall (whom I've temporarily named Ralph until I see if it lays any eggs - in that case, it's Ralpha) and Breton. I chose Ralph, however, I soon noticed Breton was wearing gloves. Thin little black ones which allowed her to freely move her thin, long digits, but were certainly no match for a walk in the crisp, cold October air._

_"Gloves at dinner?" I remarked, trying to smile a little to not piss her off, make her feel criticized, insecure or ruin her dinner in any way. As far as I know, she could be one of those women who cry easily. _

_Ambassador Breton looked at me (her mistake, not mine). "Oh… I was wearing these on my walk back from Hogsmede. I came to dinner in my traveling robes; I must have forgotten." _

_That was a lie, Ferdinand. Her little flustered glance was all I needed. Can't say I'm too interested in her true motive for wearing gloves. Chances are she's just got a scar and it's out of vanity… I wish Potter would wear a bag over his head. _

_"Again, really?" she sighed, whipping the gloves off. No scar._

_I looked at Ralph. "Hmm?"_

_"I can tell when you do that, you know. That's like Apparating in someone's dining room when they invite you over for dinner. It's obvious, rude, and uncomfortable."_

_"Ms. Breton, I have no idea what you're talking about."_

_"And now you're lying, look at you. I mean, it's really quite pathetic." She muttered something that sounded like "He must have been a green one." But I don't entirely understand what that could mean._

_"Could you explain why you've resorted to insulting me?" I was rather ruffled, to be honest. Pathetic? Me?_

_"You used Legillmency on me, rather unsportingly too. Where else am I supposed to look when talking to you? I was only being polite. And then you have to go and be a- a fucking… mind rapist." She gesticulated._

_"Paranoia does not suit you. I was minding my own mind, so to speak."_

_"Do you think I'm some sort of idiot? I caught you and now you're lying. Why would I make this up?" She has a way of sounding shrill and hushed at the same time, which I commend her on, as her discretion resulted only in Moody's goddamn blue eye on us._

_"I'm not trying to be mean or discouraging, I just think you're stupid."_

_"Well I'm on to you. Stay out of my mind," she huffed and began to rather viciously cut her steak._

_I don't regret lying, because if you lie to someone for long enough, they'll actually start to doubt their sanity and believe you. So in fourteen years or so, Breton will be thinking she was a lunatic for believing I used Legillmency on her. And that's alright with me; I have time._

_S.S._


	16. The Revelation

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Marcelle glared at the itinerary lying limply on her lap. This was it? _This _was the fucking meeting? She read the topic of today's meeting just to insure she hadn't read it incorrectly.

_International Magical Trading Standards Body Meeting: October 27, 1994._

_A Discussion on the Importance of the Regulation of Cauldron Thickness in Wizarding Europe._

Attached was a lengthy report written by Percius M. Weasley. Marcelle sighed, leaning back in her seat, deciding whether attempting escape was a possibility. As her eyes turned towards the front of the room she found Crouch staring at her, his toothbrush mustache bristling, perhaps with disapproval. He was always looking at her like that lately, like he was worried she'd discover something awful if she looked close enough.

_And even if I did, Crouch_, she thought, looking back at him, _I couldn't turn down any offer you gave me. So what is it? What's got you so worried?_

Mr. Crouch looked immediately away, checking his watch and talking to his sycophantic assistant– the one named Weasley but now called Weatherby thanks to Charles's idea of a practical joke.

It was likely Crouch was one of the minister's Ministry favorites. Cornelius Fudge's latest interest, now that things at home were prosperous, was strengthening relationships abroad – particularly in Bulgaria and France. Bulgaria offered vast national resources and France… France was in such an economic depression it could scarcely say no to any offer. Crouch's expertise and strict adherence to 'the rules' made him a strong opponent to Marcelle's sudden appointment as ambassador and fair, yet organic view of international politics. This unending prejudice went straight to Fudge whenever he asked Crouch for his opinion – "She's a liberal, wily, uneducated woman with no thought for compromise!" he once grumbled when he thought she wasn't listening. She felt it wasn't her fault her ideas were the most logical – and the most fair.

Even with five minutes until the meeting formally commenced, many seats were still empty in the amphitheater. Representatives from other countries were filing in and chatting amongst themselves. Normally, Marcelle would have been socializing, asking the others what their views on today's topic were. _But cauldron thickness? _Maybe if she were more meticulous she'd force find it interesting, but Merlin… _Cauldron thickness. That's great_, she thought.

Few of the other countries were represented by a delegation that included their nation's ambassador to Britain. LeMontre, her plucky, bi-spectacled assistant and trade expert, sat next to her, already taking notes in the margins.

"You make me want to vomit," she whispered, looking at the mural on the ceiling, the back of her head resting on her top of her seat.

"_Tu parles anglais comme une vache espanole_," he replied. "_C'est_ vom-it _et pas_ vo-mit."

_You speak English like a Spanish cow. _He was obsessed with image. Everything had to look nice, sound nice… If he wasn't pestering her about her appearance, it was about how she phrased something.

"_Please try to sound somewhat normal,"_ he continued in French, speaking low and fast. _"You treated Fudge like a child last night. I don't think we want to go around acting exactly how they think we act – arrogant and conceited."_

"Yes," Marcelle sighed in English, "well the man acted like a five year old at a toy store. It was for his own benefit. We just need to talk to him some more; see if you can get me another meeting with him within a fortnight."

"Right-o." He made note of it in his leather-bound notebook. "How is the school?" LeMontre switched to English, realizing she wouldn't change languages for the sake of discretion. Not that they'd be safe from Mr. Crouch. He was fluent in –

"-over one hundred and fifty languages! Including Bulgarian!" Weatherby's voice could be heard boasting loudly to Petkov, who had made the mistake of asking Mr. Crouch for directions to the loo in English. Petkov looked so exasperated he simply turned around and went back up to his seat.

Marcelle cleared her throat before answering. "Huge and confusing. Very different from Beauxbatons."

"Have you met anyone?"

"Dumbledore. A teacher -He's a piece of work. Always glowering. Stomping through the halls like he's got some point to prove. Dresses in all black. Very good at wandless legilmency. I was simultaneous impressed and insulted when he sifted through my mind a bit. It took me a couple seconds to break his attention and get him out."

LeMontre groaned. "Not Snape, is he?"

"You know him?"

He glared at her, looking at her like she didn't know him at all. "I worked over here in Potions right before the first war, of course I know him. He's like… the twentieth-century demigod of Potions." She hoped he was exaggerating.

"Ah, good thing I inadvertently insulted his subject this morning while trying to converse with him." She covered her eyes with the back of her wrist; the cold glass of the face of her wristwatch rested against her cheek and she thought she could almost feel the soft ticking of the second hand. These were the makings of a good day.

"I wouldn't expect him to take it too personally," LeMontre's voice continuously softened as the speaker approached the podium.

"Good afternoon, everyone," the redhead carefully enunciated each word. Marcelle inwardly groaned, hoping he wasn't presenting the information so clearly detailed in the pamphlet.

LeMontre whispered, "He was a Death Eater, so-"

"He was _a_ _what?_" Marcelle nearly shouted; heads turned to look at her, some angry some curious. Marcelle felt her face burn in embarrassment.

"Sorry, Mr. Speaker," LeMontre quickly covered, "she's very concerned about the man in your report who became a turkey hybrid. Is he still at St. Mungo's? I think we'd like to pay him a visit."

The redhead only uttered a very confused, "Decorum, delegates," before moving on.

A Death Eater was teaching at Hogwarts. Good. That was acceptable for a school. Then again, former Death Eater Karkaroff was the head of Durmstrang and even Petkov begrudgingly admitted the curriculum wasn't exactly perfect in terms of political correctness. Dumbledore had to have a reason to employ the man. Despite his mind-creeping, lack of personality, and unstable tendencies.

Marcelle focused on the speaker and then raised her placard, hoping to take her mind off of things.

"And so the most acceptable range would be- erm, yes, France?"

"Point of inquiry- did you consult any potioneers, Potions Masters, or the like when compiling this report?"

Percy's face went as red as his hair. "No, I didn't think it was necessary. Also, if you would hold all questions on the subject until the end- thank you."

Marcelle snorted quietly. "Alright, thank _you_." She set the placard down. Some countries murmured, but most found it perfectly okay that an expert in the field was not consulted. It would be a waste of the taxpayers' money to pay for the creation and implementation of such a law if it turned out they were buying thicker cauldrons than necessary. But Marcelle decided to wait for the caucus before expressing this view.

"Would you care to state our position, or shall I?" LeMontre whispered.

"I will. Even though I still think this is some sort of joke. Quill, please."

* * *

"How do I feel about cauldron thickness?" she muttered walking down the muddy path from Hogsmede, feet cold and blistering. She was about to ask Dumbledore to connect her fireplace to the Floo Network. No way in hell was she walking half a mile each time she had to go to the Ministry. It was just too windy and cold and wet and _miserable_. "Well, neither I nor the whole of France gives a damn about whether they're two and a half or two and three quarters inches thick. I don't care if you don't want to import from Asia anymore. I don't care if the cauldron is molded before the melt or melted before the mold. Or whatever the fuck you went on about, you stupid ginger…"

She walked into the Great Hall, late and still dressed in her wool travelling cloak. She took the seat beside the Auror professor – Mr. Moody. He had a wild blue eye that followed her closely and even rested upon her at dinner on occasion. She thought perhaps his eye was like a dog's tail and he had no control over it, so she pretended not to notice.

"So yer the French lass," he greeted, sort of smiling at her, though it came off as more of a leer. He was rather creepy, almost demented, she thought. He took a swig from his little mysterious canteen. "Alastor Moody."

Marcelle was grateful for her gloves at that moment when they shook hands. Physical touch only heightened her empathic powers, and she really got a strange feeling from Moody that didn't care to look into it any further. Poor man was probably just lonely and didn't know how to properly socialize.

"Marcelle Breton." She smiled.

"Breton, yeh say?" he licked his lips once. Twice.

"Yes, sir."

"The Bretons have always had business in Britain, eh? I knew your mother. She was an upstanding woman."

"Yes she was," she replied, trying her best not to appear unsettled.

"Pity You-Know-Who killed her. You must remember that; yer old enough."

She pursed her lips, feeling a pang of sadness erupt in her chest. She had been in her twenties at the time; she remembered it all right.

At that moment Snape sat next to her, head turned in careful examination of the wall. She watched Mr. Moody's eye stare him down. She immediately felt Moody did not like Snape and Snape did not like Moody. That had to be a bit uncomfortable, teaching under the same stone roof.

Marcelle focused on cutting her asparagus and not letting the hundreds of hormonal students get to her. She would have to meditate when she got back to her rooms; being around people all day wore her out.

"Gloves at dinner?"

Marcelle jumped slightly in her chair at his voice. She hadn't expected he would wish to talk to her. Not after she called his life's work a simple combination of stirring, heating and adding ingredients in the correct order. A job even a Muggle could do.

She quickly lied, a little flustered by being so directly addressed. "I was wearing these on my walk back from Hogsmede. I came to dinner in my traveling robes; I must have forgotten." She made the mistake of meeting his eye and piercing herself upon his probing gaze. She didn't notice it at first, but when she felt him realize something, she knew he was acknowledging her lie.

Fed up, she took her gloves off, slamming them down on the table. "Again, really?"

He didn't seem to be ashamed, but he gazed away from her, leaving her a view of the back of his oily head. "Hmm?"

"I can tell when you do that, you know. That's like Apparating in someone's dining room when they invite you over for dinner. It's obvious, rude, and uncomfortable."

"Ms. Breton, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And now you're lying, look at you. I mean, it's really quite pathetic." She muttered, "If people weren't watching right now, you would be gone…"_ Filthy Death Eater piece of shit…_

"Could you explain why you've resorted to insulting me?" He looked at her like she was making a fuss over nothing. As though he hadn't done a single thing to her.

She kept her voice low and a natural-looking smile on her face, not wanting to draw attention. "You used Legillmency on me, rather unsportingly too. Where else am I supposed to look when talking to you? I was only being polite. And then you have to go and be a- a fucking… mind rapist." She realized too late she used both the f-word and likened him to a rapist. _Oopsie._

"Paranoia does not suit you. I was minding my own mind, so to speak."

"Do you think I'm some sort of idiot? I caught you and now you're lying. Why would I make this up?"

"I'm not trying to be mean or discouraging, I just think you're being stupid." Snape impassively gazed at her, allowing cold air to settle between them.

Marcelle felt her own anger bubble up inside of her. She told him, "Well I'm on to you. Stay out of my mind."

Perhaps he knew. If he was a Death Eater like LeMontre said, he likely knew of her mother. Snape's Mark might have faded, but his intentions could not be entirely trusted. She was torn between her unreasonable detestation of his past and the fact he had done no more than tread – or rather stomp – on a few of her toes. If he had been attempting to search her mind for confirmation of her empathic abilities, she could soon find herself in a very compromising position if he had any malevolent plans. However, for now he only showed signs of social deficiency, and for now the best she could get away with was stomping on a few of his toes as well. She rarely subscribed to the "an eye for an eye" methodology, but for a former Death Eater, she could make an excuse.


	17. 30 October 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_30 October 1994_

_4 P.M._

_This morning Lucius Malfoy contacted me. Apparently, he caught sight of Breton at the Ministry yesterday and wants me to introduce him. It would not surprise me if he invited Crane to lunch several days ago to obtain the same outcome. I can't decide if he wants to use the connection to become the first ambassador to France in a decade or if he finds her attractive. Knowing Lucius, it's likely both._

_I haven't taken the time to respond yet, I've been too busy marking papers to put quill to parchment and adequately word my resounding __No__ to his request. Truthfully, I am attempting to avoid treading on any of Ms. Breton's toes, now that she's twice caught me using legilmency for almost no good reason. _

_As she told me at dinner, it is rather rude to use legilmency on someone, at least without permission. However, occlumency is such esoteric art that usually no one knows the difference when I pick his or her brains. It's not like I walked up to her and cried, "Legilmens!" and began looting her mind for all it was worth. I merely examined her stream of consciousness and felt the slight anxiety that often accompanies a lie. I didn't let her know it, but I felt rather ashamed about the whole thing. The first time I was legitimately suspicious of her, but at dinner it was truly an accident. _

_Dumbledore told me there's a difference between determining whether a student is lying and determining out of sheer curiosity whether an acquaintance is lying. Like I didn't already know, headmaster. I'm not that socially inept, thank you._

_Therefore I've been… I don't want to say 'avoiding', but… I rather have been avoiding Ms. Breton the past several days. That doesn't mean I haven't been watching her, trying to glean more information. I thought it wise to learn of her habits and character from afar; she has, after all, proven herself to be a bit less than ordinary._

_She reminds me of a cat, all sexual innuendos aside; I merely mean she's rather elegant. Her robes are always well pressed and in the style of business. I don't think I've seen a casual robe yet. Her movements are always purposeful; she's not one to jiggle her foot while sitting or strum her nails on a desk. She's always laughing with Crane or carrying conversation with someone, though she seems to stay away from the students if at all possible (it would appear she's not entirely senseless, though she has yet to prove to me she's actually intelligent). _

_As far as I know, she's an ambassador and President d'Arcy's senior advisor. It's funny though, she doesn't seem much older than me. It's clear that she a little over thirty (my personal estimation), but isn't that a little young to be a 'senior advisor'? I plan on looking into this, see what my connections know about her. I wonder what the ambassadors are trying to accomplish here other than obtain allies and trade sanctions, etc. France's economic depression seems to be looking worse than usual according to the papers. In my opinion, I think it jumped at the option to be a part of the Tri-Wizard tournament due to the fact that we (and by we I mean Great Britain and really the entire United Kingdom, really) have been shunning the country for the past twenty years or so. But, of course, you probably know that already, don't you, Ferdi? So, getting in our good graces again is likely on the agenda._

_Personally, I'd like to see a lower tariff in our trading with Bulgaria come out of this. They have the best wild angelica, much better than the Russian species. Unfortunately, they're more than double the price and I don't have the luxury of excess money. If I could get my hands on some of those leaves... I'd die a happy Potions Master._

_Back on the subject of Breton, the other professors are becoming quite keen on her. I suppose she's actually rather personable if you don't force your way into her mind almost every time you converse with her. Nothing seems out of the ordinary about her; though I noticed she tends to wear gloves more than the normal average person. Still not sure what that's about, but I wonder if it's at all related to her strange ability. _

_Maybe she's an alien._

_Forget I said that. She seems normal enough, based on appearances. I suppose as long as I attend at least one meal a day to not rouse Dumbledore's suspicions and nod at her in the halls I won't be seeing much of her. Fine by me. _

_10 P.M. _

_The foreign brats are now here. We were forced to stand outside, waiting in the chilly, windless air for some unimaginable length of time. The ambassadors stood out in front by Dumbledore, conversing calmly. However, I heard more than once the boisterous sound of Ms. Breton laughing at something Bagman said. Afterwards she caught Crane's eye, as though they shared a private joke. _

_The children descended on the school like rats carrying the plague. More children is sure to mean more drama. I hope they don't try to throw them all together too much; I think some students will take the international rivalry far too seriously. French, Bulgarian, and British flags adorn the major corridors now. Setting a fine example as always, Peeves has been using them to blow his nose and squish spiders. As long as he doesn't touch the British flags I'll pretend to not notice._

_1 A.M. _

_Went to lurk in a dark corner and wait for glory-hogging students trying to put their name in the Goblet of Fire. However, I was sidetracked along the way. Breton endeared herself even more to my large, loving heart. She abused puns to try and get a rise out of me. Failure was imminent. I was, as Dumbledore calls it, "the bigger person" in this instance._

_I saw someone had either forgotten or was too lazy to shut the portrait entrance to the kitchens, so I went out of my way to the bit of warm orange light spilling out into the dungeons. I had no sooner poked my head in the kitchen, hoping to find Potter doing something illegal, than Breton looked up from her lemon tart. _

"_Professor," her tone was light, polite. "Good evening."_

_I stared at her probably for too long, rather irked that now I would have to awkwardly converse with her rather than take her to the headmaster's office and expel her. "Evening. I thought…" I paused when I saw her begin to laugh. "Hmm?"_

"_You're rather disappointed, aren't you?" she chuckled, curving her mouth around the spoon in a smile. "I'm a bit old for a detention, professor. Or whatever punishment you had in mind."_

_How odd, don't you think? It was like she could, to use the Muggle turn-of-phrase, 'read my mind.' "For someone so particular about the privacy of her mind, you certainly don't care to heed your own advice."_

_Breton's lips puckered coquettishly. "No comment - Is that an admission of guilt?"_

"_No comment."_

"_No need to pout. You have your secrets and I have mine. I was hoping you wouldn't __mind, Rape__ - I mean – Snape, if I abstained from telling you them."_

"_Resorting to a pun?" I sneered. "Really?"_

"_I apologize," Breton sniggered, not even attempting to show some sincere remorse. She didn't even look at me. "I can't help it if 'Snape' rhymes with 'rape'. I was hoping you wouldn't…" she began to laugh, putting the spoon down, "__sniff that one out__."_

_I tried to not feed her anymore material by just glaring at her (Merlin, two jibes in the span of fifteen seconds), but she had another pun in her verbal arsenal._

_She stopped laughing long enough to squeak out, "But I should have known that as a school teacher, you must have __a nose__ for sass." She threw her head back in laughter, slapping her knee._

_I desperately wish I could have given her a detention. What I wouldn't give to see her scrub the chamber pots with a toothbrush… She wouldn't be chortling little jokes about my nose then, would she? _

_Now that I think about it, I wouldn't be surprised if she put the Weasley twins up to dramatically falling out of their seats when I sneezed twice this afternoon. I saw her laughing with one of them on her way to her rooms. I didn't think she would go that low, getting the Weasleys involved. Pathetic. Peeves will probably be next. He has always taken such glee in trying to dump shampoo on me, and whatnot. I'm going to talk to the Baron and then go to bed. Students can go ahead and sneak their name into the Goblet, I'll be protecting my dignity. _

_No one makes a fool out of Severus Snape._

_S.S._


	18. 31 October 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended

* * *

_31 October 1994_

_Mr. Potter has done it again. I knew I shouldn't have wasted my bloody time looking for the Bloody Baron. I should have been hidden in the shadows, waiting for Potter or a foolish of-age Gryffindor to put his name in the Goblet. You heard right. I'm sure it will be in the paper tomorrow morning, which is exactly what that little scarface wants. _

_Breton, who apparently views herself as the divine voice of reason, thinks I'm mad, underbred, classless, and – what was the last one? –, oh, tactless for pointing out what, to me, is obvious. Potter obviously figured out a way to break the rules (but it's not considered breaking the rules since the rules do not apply to him) and had someone put his name in the Goblet. Headmaster Dumbledore believes Potter is "in danger." Who else wants to try and take a chunk out of the kid? There's no one left!_

_It's a mess. Emergency faculty meeting tomorrow morning. That ought to be riveting. I plan on "taking notes" a.k.a. tallying the number of times Trelawney references the things she saw in her psychic visions when defending her position. I never think it will be that many but she's surprisingly creative in her sentence structure._

_Merlin, why is it __always__ on Halloween?_

_S.S._


	19. The Dispute

**A/N:** No copyright infringement intended - I consulted the book for this scene, but I ended up paraphrasing most of what was said to save time/you're probably not reading this fic to read GoF all over again ;). Last Marcelle chapter for a long while. They're only useful because Snape shares so little in his letters/is pretty biased that some of the details get lost. Thanks to those who reviewed/added story to their alerts and favorites.

* * *

Marcelle opened her eyes. Sunlight leaked through the eastern windows of her bedroom, revealing the light haze of dust that floated throughout. She was on the ground floor of the castle; just beyond the windows was the Transfiguration Courtyard, so named for the classroom next door. The view wasn't magnificent or sweeping – she would have much preferred a view from one of the towers overlooking the lake. Her rooms were often rather dark, as when inside she tended to draw the velvet curtains to block the curious eyes of passing students. However, when well lit they were quite lovely.

There were three rooms in all; the bedroom and bathroom opened into a large sitting room on the right that let out into a small corridor with a set stone steps leading up to what a portrait had called "the Viaduct." She could only assume _the Viaduct_ was a term in reference to that particular area of the school. She was directly above the dungeons and a corridor away from the entrance hall. In fact, she resided in the room directly above Professor Snape's office.

There was a large hearth in the sitting room and another smaller one in the bedroom. The walls were uncharacteristic of a castle, not stone but plaster painted Beauxbatons' blue that faded into a pristine white, arched ceiling. The only windows were in her bedroom, diamond-paned with blue velvet curtains.

She opened her chestnut wardrobe, selecting a robe appropriate for both her meeting with Crouch and the feast that evening. It was a simple black robe, cut in a classic fashion appropriate for her age. She pinned her hair up with a spell and used the mirror to tie a bow from the silk material of her robes behind her back, turning around and spotting Philippe LeMontre's horned owl Ignatius flying towards her window just in time to open the window and let him in. She watched the bird swoop right inside and land with the clack of its yellow claws on the stone floor. It hopped towards her impatiently, ready to return to its master for a tasty treat.

"What is he doing sending me a letter, Iggy?" she crooned, taking one last look at her hair in the mirror. The bird only squawked indignantly and lifted its leg at her. She bent down to take it and as she rose back up she caught sight of Professor Snape - dressed in his usual black robes - sweep out of a door from the opposite end of the courtyard. She wondered where he could be going, with such a determined expression on his face. Her first derisive thought was that he was probably off to raid students' minds in the Great Hall – it seemed to be a hobby of his. _Good morning, sunshine_, she mused, mentally shutting out his rays of general annoyance while she shut the window after Ignatius_. _She opened the letter, immediately discarding the envelope in a rubbish bin.

_Marcelle,_

_It's been four days since you've seen me. I hope you're okay. A woman by the name of Dolores Umbridge (you don't know her, do you?) said Prime Minister Fudge is booked for the next month due to the Tournament. She's a lovely woman. Reminds me of my dear grand-mere who baked me biscuits and read me books until I feel asleep..._

_Heartbreaking nostalgia aside, Lucius Malfoy, left a letter for you in your office probably assuming you would return. Seeing as you've been in and out of meetings and tours and haven't come back to your office in a timely manner (tsk tsk, Marcelle), I have taken the liberty of opening it for you. You can thank me later._

_He says when he met you he was, and I quote, "caught off-guard not by how lovely and elegant you are but by your innate charm and grace." Subtle. He "has dabbled in foreign affairs for some time now" and wants to know if you would "care to join Fudge and [him] next Friday for light political discussion and drinks at the Heart's Arrow in Diagon Alley." He states the rendezvous time as "a quarter after 8" since that is the time at which "private discussion is most easily obtained."_

_That's the condensed version. Although if you would care for the original in all its flowery glory I left it in the center drawer of your desk since I assumed you'd be curious. The paper is scented, by the way. Smells like freesia._

_This presents the perfect opportunity for you to meet with Fudge. I suggest you take it. Mr. Malfoy is a very influential personage with a formidable network. Opportunity has just knocked upon your door._

_Philippe_

She read the letter one more time. She distinctly remembered Lucius Malfoy. He had made her feel a bit slimy, like she had bathed in flobberworm goo. He was tolerable, however, and very polite. No harm in a little debate over drinks; she'd reply today before her meeting.

_Knock, knock!_ The sound of someone rapping their knuckles on her door carried to the bedroom. She reached out with her heart, trying to sense if it was someone she knew well. Familiarity increased her ability to empathize; this person was too unfamiliar to recognize.

_Knock, knock!_

She pulled back the oak door to reveal the deputy headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. She looked at her sternly over her square glasses with a roll of parchment in her hands. "Professor McGonagall."

"Ambassador Breton," she greeted firmly, her lips pursed.

She came to tell her something. "Would you care to come in?" McGonagall shook her head once.

"No, Ms. Breton, this should only take a moment. The professors and I are organizing further friendly competition between our students." She handed her the scroll. "As I am sure you are aware," she watched Marcelle's hands as the opened it, "the Tri-Wizard Tournament seeks to not only build rapport between the participating countries but the participating schools."

The parchment was very white and starchy, stiff to the touch. Dark blue ink was used and the heading stated "Beauxbatons, Durmstrang and Hogwarts Dueling Tournament."

"A dueling tournament?" She blinked at the paper dumbly.

"Yes. We were hoping you'd be a moderator for Beauxbatons." The way she said it sounded more like "We chose you as a moderator for Beauxbatons."

"Well I don't know that much about dueling, to be honest," she lied, keeping her eyes on the parchment. There was a line for her signature and everything. It looked like a liability release form in case someone got carried away during a demonstration and snapped her neck in half. At least it had better be, because her father would sue their asses before they could formally pronounce her dead.

McGonagall's eyes hardened. Apparently she came equipped with bullshit detectors. "Ambassador, Madame Maxime told me herself last night at dinner that you won your school's dueling championship your last year at school. I wouldn't call that 'not much.'"

She feigned ignorance. "Oh! Years ago… Decades, really! And, well," Marcelle tried again, "I'm very busy. With meetings, you know. Dreadfully boring but –"

"Breton, please spare me from you frivolous excuses. Otherwise, you'll next be trying to tell me you're too busy getting fitted for new robes to attend these meetings," McGonagall interrupted briskly, now impatient and ready to attend to other business. "You are the last person on my list to ask and Professor Moody himself vouched for you."

She surrendered. "Well if Professor Moody vouched for me," she muttered sarcastically, taking her wand out of her pocket and summoning a quill from her bag, "sign me right up. I suppose there was no avoiding it." She handed the signed parchment back, wondering what she had just agreed to. The parchment duplicated itself at McGonagall's touch, the copy gliding back to Marcelle. "It could turn out to be quite good fun." She forced a grin, folding the copy up into her pocket. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall."

"Minerva, please," she replied, a small triumphant smile fighting its way onto her face. "And I believe your copy contains important dates. I'd keep that tucked away somewhere safe."

* * *

Marcelle skipped a beat. Had Dumbledore really just pulled Harry Potter's name out of the Goblet of Fire? He was both underage and superfluous – the three champions had already been selected for each school.

Murmuring filled the Great Hall, belying the shock and outrage of its inhabitants. Charles's reaction was no different than the majority.

"What?" he muttered, crossing his arms and frowning. He gave her a sidelong glance. "What happened?"

"I don't know." She looked at Potter and felt a small pang of sympathy. He was still rather small for his age, and his unruly black hair fell behind his glasses into his utterly bewildered green eyes. That was a true expression of astonishment.

When Harry was sent to the room with the other champions, Bagman followed immediately; he seemed to be the only one happy about the turn of events, though that seemed to rise from his boyish nature more than anything. The rest of the High Table jumped into action, ignoring their students altogether. Maxime and Kararoff murmured their disgraces to each other, while Dumbledore spoke some more to McGonagall, slowly moving away from the Goblet and closer to the door. Petkov moved to the other end of the table, consorting with Maxime and Karkaroff.

Charles asked, "Position?" He took one last bite of his steamed vegetables and sipped his wine.

"I'd like to know what the hell is going on."

"… I'll put you down as 'neutral.'"

Crouch and Marcelle rose at the same time. He tossed her a quick glance, quietly telling her, "It is crucial that we calm the others."

Acknowledging him, she moved around his rigid figure. She walked along the back wall, pushing in empty chairs as she went along. She again spotted McGonagall, Snape and Dumbledore nearer to the door all tete-a-tete. McGonagall looked up as she approached, catching her eye for a split second and the looking away.

Snape was angry, but a little smug. Had he suspected something like this? She pretended to listen to Petkov calmly explain to Madame Maxime what was going to happen (she was really too irate to stomach any rational explanation, but he didn't know that, of course). She dug a little deeper, following the smugness to its roots. Smugness, hatred, jealousy – a grudge… against a fourteen year old?

"What's the plan?" Charles suddenly asked and broke her concentration, having caught up to her. His napkin was still tucked into his shirt. She flung it out and tossed it to the corner of the table.

She looked around, Snape and McGonagall had moved inside, tailed by Crouch and Madame Maxime. "We're going inside to chat very pleasantly and discuss a compromise," she chirped, following.

She caught Karkaroff's eye at the door. The door could not admit them both at once, so he paused to let her pass, smiling and airily bidding, "Après vous, mademoiselle," in his fruity, unctuous voice. His eyes were cold and cunning, matching his demeanor.

She smiled back, proceeding into the small, warm room after eyeing his goatee with a bit of repulsion. "Karkaroff, I'm getting too old to be called that, you know. It will become embarrassing in a few years."

It was the trophy room, lined with trophies and glass cases, plaques and medals. The walls were clothed with a rich burgundy and deep yellow print, though it looked like it hadn't been cleaned for a few centuries. As Marcelle took a place along the wall and shifted to make room for Dumbledore and Petkov, she could practically smell the anger in the room. And with good cause: The selection of Potter suggested foul play.

It was a tight fit in the room, with little room for much air. It gave a mixed, murky feel to all the emotions, some got swapped and mixed with others and swirled in the air like pollen in the spring. She also kept stepping on expensive-looking things as she shuffled to make more and more room. The clanging of the metal intermingled with crunches and hushed _Reparos_ ended only when she ended up at Potter's side at the back wall across from the fireplace.

"You're taller than I expected," she muttered when she realized he was about her height. He focused on Maxime reassuring Delacour and snapping at Dumbledore and did not hear her. He was nervous, but even the comments made about him being a child did not rile him too much. He merely seemed a bit put off.

"Perhaps I haven't read the rules thoroughly enough, but I don't recall the hosting school being allowed two champions, Dumbledore." Karkaroff let out a short, nasty laugh.

"I think I'd rather like to agree," Charles said, though his subsequent chuckle was much warmer and friendlier than Karkaroff's. "If I had known we were having four champions, the U.S.A. would have been quite interested in joining the tournament officially."

"It is impossible to 'ave four champions." Maxime looked like her hand was about to crush Delacour's delicate shoulder with the weight or her many rings. "It is against zee rules."

"Rules which do not seem to apply to Hogwarts," said Karkaroff, his steely smile never faltering.

"Hogwarts does not abide by a different set of rules in this tournament," said Crouch firmly. If there was one thing he wanted to hammer home, it was equality. It seemed to be his tactic for settling this dispute, reassuring the foreign schools that the tournament would still be equal.

"You tell them, Crouchy," Marcelle muttered very, very quietly. Beside her, Potter smiled slightly.

As though on cue, Snape inserted, "Potter is the only one on which blame should be placed. He's been crossing lines since –"

"That will be enough, Professor Snape," said Dumbledore calmly. Snape glared at him from behind his curtains of dark hair, but did not continue. Hint taken.

Dumbledore moved to the center of the room, until he blocked Snape from her sight and was just in front of Harry. His lips were quirked in a small, thin smile. "Do you think Harry put his name in the Goblet of Fire, Ambassador Breton?" It seemed odd to the others that he would single her out for her opinion, but Marcelle knew he wanted to know if she would tell the truth to him. He could have easily asked Potter himself. In fact, he was probably going to anyway.

She looked at the wallpaper a bit more, carefully choosing her words as she picked at some dried mud. She was uncomfortably aware of Harry's inquisitive gaze hitting the side of her head. He was hopeful. "Anything is possible," she looked back at Dumbledore, flicking off the dust from her first two fingers with her thumb and glancing back the gold leaf detailing she had revealed, "but… personally speaking, I think it's unlikely. I don't think it's in his temperament to do something like this." She looked at Potter. "He seems very genuine."

Snape suddenly swooped out from his shadowy corner and said bitingly, "Yes he _seems_ very genuine, but you've only just met the boy haven't you?"

Dumbledore, turned around, a little surprised, "Severus –"

Marcelle frowned. "Well excuse me, but I don't recall anyone asking you what you thought." She kept her voice carefully even. "And you've already made your point once before."

He remained where he was, just over Dumbledore's shoulder, smoldering in annoyance. He was torn between retorting and listening to reason.

Now Dumbledore turned back around and asked, "Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?"

"No," he replied, a bit self-consciously when he realized all eyes were on him. Snape made a harsh little noise that sounded like disbelief.

Charles smiled, "Well there you go, Snape!" There was no mocking or sarcasm in his voice. "Case settled." Snape gave him a withering glance. Charles was affronted. "Was it something I said?" he whispered to Marcelle.

"Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz zee line," Maxime insisted.

It was McGonagall's turn to glare at someone, but she did not say much more than huff in annoyance.

"It is possible of course," Dumbledore said politely.

"I don't find that likely," Marcelle said, rising to his defense.

Snape rolled his eyes. "_I_ don't recall anyone deeming _you_ a judge of that."

Karkaroff snorted.

"If the age line did not work then Potter would have had either to put it in himself or ask someone to do it for him, since Mr. Potter has denied doing either of those -"

"Have you ever taken into account the fact that he might be lying?" Snape asked, raising a single brow. Maxime and Karkaroff nodded in agreement and then looked at Marcelle for her response.

"He's not."

"How do you know?"

Marcelle gave him a knowing smile. "How _you_ know?"

"You do not know Potter like I do," he said, looking at the boy scathingly. It was a wonder Potter did not dissolve into tears. "Since the moment he set foot in this castle he has shown disregard for every rule and order set before him. This case is no different."

"I can see this is going nowhere with you," she lamented. "There must be another option. Someone put his name in; we know that much."

"I think perhaps we should all turn to Mr. Crouch to explain the protocol," Dumbledore opined.

Very curtly, Crouch explained that Potter was simply going to have to participate. Bagman explained that the Goblet had already gone out, and would not reignite until the next tournament.

Karkaroff glowered. "After all our meetings and compromises and negotiations…"

"Is this another one of Crouch's jokes?" asked Charles quietly. "Like the cauldron thickness thing you were telling me about?" He chuckled then loudly asked, "That still gets me. I mean, what are they going to do? Boycott all the Chinese countries?"

"Oh my goodness, _Charles_," Marcelle moaned under her breath. She looked into the fire shaking her head. "Please go over what you just said."

Marcelle saw Snape's mouth move in a strange manner – something akin to a spasm or seizure. His eyes were pointed down at the floor, but Marcelle knew he had heard. Eventually, his lips curled into something more like a smile than a sneer.

"What did I say?" Charles looked at her dumbly.

"All the Chinese countries?"

"I meant Asian."

"_I hope so."_

Professor Moody shuffled in the room, shutting the door behind him. "Isn't it obvious? How convenient this whole tournament would be for someone who wanted Potter dead."

The room quieted for a moment. Karkaroff looked around shiftily and Delacour's eyes widened. "Zis _is_ an opportunity to die for," she put in as an afterthought.

Marcelle rolled her eyes. Bagman bounced nervously up and down on the balls of his feet, nervously saying, "Moody, my good man, what an awful thing to say!"

"How dramatic of you, Professor," Snape sneered. "What other murder plots have you come up with today?"

"Do not mock me, _Professor_," he sneered right back. "You wouldn't be so brave if it were just you and me alone. You'd fly back your little hidey-hole, wouldn't you, you great bat?"

"Mr. Moody, I would have to agree with Professor Snape, though I shall voice my sentiments more clearly." Snape looked at her disapprovingly, as though he did not approve of her support. "I would like more evidence of your theory before I invest any amount of time in the assumption that it is plausible."

"Quit your smarmy diplomatic talk, Breton," said Karkaroff coldly. "I plan on sending complaints to the International Confederation of Wizards about this and that is that."

"Quite right," agreed Maxime with a small pout.

"Well then I'll be reading them seeing as I am a member," she replied. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Certainly wouldn't be easy to trick the Goblet into accepting a name under a fourth school, but a powerful wizard could do it," Moody continued, ignoring the jabbering between Marcelle and the others. "It would insure Potter was the only one in his category and would be selected for the tournament."

Marcelle wondered who could have put Potter's name into the Goblet of Fire. Ironically, after the months they had spent planning something still went awry. She looked once more at Snape who was intently listening to Moody's theory with an angry sneer. Someone was lying in this group of people. She looked at everyone from Harry to Charles. The question who was it, and _why?_


	20. 1 November 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_1 November 1994_

_I found a library book misplaced in the Mind and Emotion section (I finally had the courage to sort through Dragon Soup for the Teenage Wizard's Soul books and look for something historical in nature). It was 1,000 Draughts and Potions – Extended Edition, a book I once used for my N.E.W.T. students. A dog-eared page led me to the instructions for Enemy's Quarrel._

_Fingerroot, when powdered and used in excess, is the major ingredient of Enemy's Quarrel, a poison. It renders the drinker paralyzed until breathing is impossible. The antidote is rather simple, though a bezoar would be ineffective. Not too shabby._

_I must say the coincidence is alarming. Almost more alarming than being besieged by Blast-Ended Skrewts on one's way to the greenhouses. Hagrid really ought to get those mangy things under control. Wouldn't want to see them all get mysteriously slaughtered in the night or anything._

_S.S._


	21. 2 November 1994

A/N: It has been too long since I've last updated. So very sorry about this. My excuse is school, but if I had tried harder to make time for this it could have happened. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_2 November 1994_

_Everything on this end is business as usual._

_Potter lost Gryffindor house points for being his usual arrogant self._

_Granger got them back for being an insufferable know-it-all._

_Longbottom lost them again for a general lack of common sense, which means I won today's battle against the rowdy Gryffindors. Although I usually do win, so it's not much to boast about._

_I examined the House Point vials – to my horror Hufflepuff was winning. However, by noon Hufflepuff was in last. None of my doing. I didn't even have them in class today. Pomona tried to accuse me of unfairly taking away points during class. I told her to tell her students to work harder, since that seems to be the only trait they have going for them._

_Later in the afternoon Dumbledore had me model for him in his office the gloves he had recently knit. Not sure why he felt it was necessary at all or that I be the model – I'm certain Breton could have done it, what with her glove fetish. She was hanging around the school all day today anyway, chatting with students. She had a little hiccup with the Skeeter yesterday according to the Evening Prophet. Details unknown, I repeat only what I heard second-hand. _

_McGonagall hissed some nasty Scottish insult at me for missing the faculty meeting (I told her it was an accident; it slipped my mind). She also seemed to be quite angry I publicly called Breton the nosebleed of the Ministry – annoying and only cured by patience and a good handkerchief for muffling. I didn't apologize. To be honest, I'm only sorry she caught me saying it._

_S.S._


	22. 3 November 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_3 November 1994_

_Rather than mulling the situation in her office all day and eventually apologizing to me because she's somehow tricked herself into thinking she's actually at fault for something, McGonagall had Parkinson deliver the nicest little note I have ever received._

_I transcribed it below:_

"_Professor McGonagall wishes to inform Professor Snape (who has very recently taken to acting like a complete and utter git and embarrassing the school by picking illogical fights like a second-year schoolboy) that should he continue to refuse to attend faculty meetings, administrative action shall be taken in accordance to clause 12.2.3 of his contract. She would also like him to know that a short meeting shall adhere in the faculty lounge half an hour before dinner tomorrow. – M"_

_I replied._

"_Professor Snape would like to inform the stuffy, colonial, Tartan-wearing hag that he cannot attend this meeting because there are no more Boomslang skins for his second year Gryffindor class. Unless this overfed feline wishes for her students to grow exponentially more idiotic, a short trip to Diagon Alley will be taken. – S"_

_Her reply was most unlike her. I'm starting to worry if she's worried herself insane over precious Potter._

"_You can shove your shoddy recipes up your unusually miserly rectum; perhaps you can ask the lovely Ms. Breton to buy some on her impending trip to Diagon Alley. – M"_

_Damn._

_S.S._


	23. 4 November 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_4 November 1994_

_I've been drafted. _

_Drafted to the Dueling Tournament; McGonagall surprised me during our meeting. I agreed to it in the most disagreeable voice I could muster without being overt. It is not exactly as though I don't already have enough to do. I suppose finding out how Potter got himself into the tournament can slip a few places on my list of priorities. It's not like he could get himself maimed or killed or anything. Dumbledore didn't seemed too worried when I suggested that if someone had indeed put his name under a fourth school it could have been one of the dignitaries. In fact, he smiled and offered me some treacle tart. I'm more that willing to interpret that as, "On second thought, Severus, you deserve a break. I'll take care of everything."_

_If only it were true._

_I made the mistake of asking Moody what he kept in that canteen of his. His wild blue eye spun in circles before he loudly grumbled about how it was none of my damn business and I had bloody well keep my nose out of it since it was partially my fault he no longer drinks beverages he did not prepare himself. Well Merlin, it's not as though I ever tried to intentionally poison the man. If a poison I made ever somehow made it into his drink when he was an auror, I shouldn't be held accountable. It's not my fault I can make poisons basic test kits can't detect. Blame the makers of the test kits. I'm sure he could have gotten a nice sum of money from a well-planned lawsuit. _

_Since I wasn't about to apologize for being intelligent, I just looked away from his nauseating eye. I don't enjoy teasing Moody. He always looks at me like he'd like to smash my skull in if he had the chance. And he's so unpredictable (I just heard him shout "constant vigilance" outside the staff room, if you need any evidence). I prefer not to upset him. He's very kind to Breton, however, despite the strange look that comes over her face whenever he speaks to her. It's difficult to describe, but she begins to look a bit put-off, like someone presented her with a plate of something unappetizing. _

_I think it's the eye. Has to be. It's downright disgusting. Additionally, he polishes it at dinner. __I don't think that's acceptable behavior._

_S.S._


	24. 8 November 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_8 November 1994_

_Ferdinand, I suggest replying once in a while. Just to know if you think I'm insane or not and need immediate psychological attention. I'd really like to be able to spend my time on something more productive… Such as, oh, maybe, finishing my research? Or doing a background check on the ambassadors? _

_I've had to give more detentions lately to keep the classroom in order and students are starting to think that I've gone mad. Not that I care what they think, but if Minerva finds out I gave Longbottom a detention for dropping his quill during a lecture, she might have a problem with that._

_I have to organize with one of the Beauxbatons' dueling tournament coordinators tonight. I bet it's going to be a little wisp of a person with more interest in looking nice than teaching the students how to duel._

_11 PM_

_False. It's Breton. She's as annoying as hell. Everything had to be her way. _

_And the look on her face when she saw me (she came 10 minutes late!)…. She looked like she would rather have swallowed a bug. _

_Did you put Dumbledore up to this? _

_S.S._


	25. 12 November 1994

__A/N: Okay so my excuse for not writing for so long is that A. I've been in school and apparently studying to become a doctor is not as easy as Grey's Anatomy makes it look? So we can blame that part on the creation of calculus and chemistry. B. I haven't felt like writing. I want to finish this fic so I can move on to other things but for me to do that it has to be good. So I needed time where I wouldn't feel guilty for not doing something else. Anyway, enjoy! I've missed this fic a lot. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_12 November 1994_

_The first dueling tournament practice was today. Nearly a hundred students, all seventh years and a few older sixth years, were packed into the Great Hall to practice the art of wizard dueling. If you think this sounds dangerous, you'd be correct. I spent the majority of my time, not instructing but keeping poorly aimed spells from going too far astray. Breton, or as I like to call her, Miss Unpunctual, was late. We were short a moderator, which forced Moody to head over and work with the Beauxbatons' lot and Crane, who really has no clue what he's doing, to work with me. _

_While circling the students together, I fished out two pieces of information from him. 1. Breton practically lives in President D'Arcy's pocket, and 2. She comes from a political family that has had business in Britain for centuries. This begs the question, what sort of business? I didn't ask; I wanted to appear distinctly disinterested. _

_As her excuse for her lateness, Breton told me there was an information leak at the ministry. She walked in dramatically, breathing heavily through her nose and with her hair escaping its restraints. She wore pure white robes today, though the hem was a little soiled by her walk outdoors. The students, whom had all been practicing, stopped and turned to see who had forcefully thrown open the wooden doors of the Great Hall. I ventured towards her from the back, meeting her near the far end of the dueling stage. _

"_I hope I'm not too late," she practically panted as she drew near, devoid of her usual poise._

_I noticed the smallest little clench of her fist as she stood in front of me. She was definitely frazzled, though that did nothing to soothe my annoyance. There were far too many students for the five – now six with the presence of Breton – moderators to efficiently handle. _

"_Your civility is appreciable, Breton, but it is half past seven."_

_Ignoring everything I had just said she asked, "Is the Evening Prophet out yet?" and took off her shimmery cloak, draping it over a chair. _

"_What did you snap at Skeeter this time, Breton?" I walked down to the Hogwarts students, who, under Crane's tutelage were practicing different hexes. I made a mental note to find a copy as soon as possible._

_She took that deliberately polite, gentle tone with me; the same one she used for Mr. Crouch and Moody. "Professor Snape, aside from the obvious, what are –"_

_I cut her off. I was sick of bullshit, it was time for answers. "So," I demanded, "what was it?"_

_She frowned. "A missing file. A file on Potter."_

"_Potter?" I repeated in confusion._

"_The Potter family."_

"_What were you doing looking for the Potters's file?"_

_She lowered her voice and caught me by the arm of my robes, stopping me from proceeding through the rows of people and forcing me to turn and face her. "It's not what you think-"_

"_What do I think?" I hate it when people assume to know how I feel. _

_But she hit the nail right on the head. "You don't trust me. But why should you? I don't take it personally. It simply confirms you're a hard-assed bastard."_

_Her words drowned out the noise of the whizzing spells and the cries of the students. Her reply caught me off-guard. Was I that obvious? I admit, I am a bit of a bastard… But I'm a bastard to everyone. It wasn't as though I act bastardly to her specifically. _

"_If you want me to be honest, I was looking him up because Lucius left me alone for a moment in the file room and I seized the opportunity to see what your deal was with them. The Potters."_

_I felt myself pale. I was tempted to tell her that even if she had found the file she wouldn't find what she was looking for. But instead I said, "What?" because I wanted her to feed me more information. _

"_The Potters have always been a Pureblood family of note. They go back to the Peverels, so I assumed—"_

"_Can we talk about this later?" _

_I didn't like the smile she gave me as she slinked away. I also hated the look on her face when the Prophet promptly arrived at dinner with the headline "Important Ministry Secret File Missing; News Leaked by French Ambassador." She watched me unfold the paper to the article with hardened eyes. Maybe she thought she could start intimidating me, but it never worked before. Not sure why Miss Logical would think I'd suddenly cower submissively. I hope she's at least embarrassed she couldn't keep her big mouth shut. She's a fucking nosebleed, I'm telling you. _

_S.S._


	26. 13 November 1994

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_13 November 1994_

_The strangest thing happened today. I was teaching the fourth years – Slytherins and Gryffindors, as it would happen – in a double period. Miss Granger was absent – this is noteworthy later on. She was likely in the hospital wing, but I can't say for sure. I'd been having a bad day and said something rather unprofessional to her. _

_By bad day, I mean I'd spent all more pruning a particularly variety of _ and it turns out they have a rather adverse, unexpected interaction with another component of the potion I'm working on for the Tri-Wizard Tournament. I had to scrap the entire cauldron and so I was late to class. _

_There was a knock at the door, which is unusual because the faculty know how I am about having my classes interrupted just to find out about, oh, say a faculty meeting or that the Quidditch match was moved to Saturday or something equally banal. It was Ambassador Breton, looking radiant in red. I had just been about to test Potter's antidote, which was a foggy green color – not at all correct for the poison it was supposed to cure._

"_I'm here to save Potter," was the first thing out of her mouth. I assume she spent time collecting her thoughts outside the door and overheard me. Without further permission, she came further inside my classroom. I instinctively positioned myself between her and the wall of dead creatures suspended inside glass jars, something I do with first year students who don't know any better and accidently break things. She pressed forward even further, looking at me curiously whenever my steps mirrored hers. "What is the lesson today, professor?"_

"_Antidotes. Why do you need Potter?" I wasn't going to lose my chance to teach the boy a lesson if I could help it._

"_It has to do with tournament publicity." She blinked. "My goodness you're in a dreadful mood today. Nothing to do with Miss Granger?"_

_The students tensed. "Miss Granger was hit by a jinx before class," I stated. It was a neutral, non-committal thing to say. _

_She laughed, nodding, "Yes I saw her run past my open window, sobbing. I'm not sure if I believe it; she said you told her you saw no difference in her teeth when they were growing down past her chin." She laughed airily again, though there was a sharp coldness that hit the air that accompanied it._

"_He did say that," said Potter, a smirk on his face. "He didn't even give her permission to go to the Hospital Wing."_

_Breton looked at me for confirmation. She didn't seem mad, yet she seemed furious. _

_I tried to get her to leave. "You may take Potter, I'll see him later this evening in detention for his cheek."_

"_More like being honest," she said quietly, but then casually added, "You're as vile as I predicted. Usually I like being right, but in this case I'm sorry to say I was completely right about you."_

"_I beg your pardon? Ambassador, what gives you the right to come into my own classroom –"_

"_You lost any respect I had for you when you resorted to being spiteful with a fourteen year old girl. Pick on someone your own size, hmm? You're not a teacher, you're a bully." She spoke matter-of-factly, briskly. _

"_Get out." I had to grit my teeth to keep from saying anything else. I have never said anything against her personally. Nothing. I've had my suspicions and my doubts about her, but I've never spoken out against her. "Never step foot in here again."_

_She gave me a toothy smile, her red lips parting to reveal white teeth. She stepped around me; she had somehow managed to get to the shelves without my noticing. She lightly gripped my left forearm as she passed, briefly catching my eye. "I was right," she whispered._

_Since this afternoon, I've been oddly calm. Until now because my left forearm has been tickling, almost itching where the Dark Mark was burned. It hasn't done this in years. Not since the Dark Lord was alive. It could be nothing. It could indeed be nothing, but… I stopped believing in coincidences long ago._

_S.S._


	27. 20 November 1994

_A/N: _No copyright infringement intended :)

* * *

_20 November 1994_

_It's four days until the first task. Four days until I get to sit in some stands and watch four teenagers risk their lives for some glory and a trophy. How barbaric. I finally gave in and made Pomfrey's potions she ask for. She's been up my ass about them this past week, metaphorically speaking. I spent all night brewing that burn salve. She should be pleased enough with its quality, I left it on the heat for a few minutes too long. It was my arm again. _

_The lost file is still missing and Breton's press ranges from negative and condescending to positive and admiring. This week was very nice superficial week for her._

_Daily Prophet__: Ministry News Article - _

"_Foreign Ambassadors Settle into Hogwarts – Tri-Wizard Tournament Update"_

_Photo Subtitle: "Ambs. Breton and Petkov touring Hogsmede. Both were very impressed with the local pub's, the Three Broomsticks, butterbeer."_

_Witch Weekly__ Headline (This one is by Skeeter) – _

"_Ministry Affairs: Lucius Malfoy and Elegant French Ambassador Cozy Up Over Foreign Policy" _

_The Knightly Informer__ Article –_

"_Malfoy's New Lady Friend: What Is She Thinking?"_

_This one has a photograph of them walking together, side by side. She's talking ruefully and he is looking at the camera with that arrogant smile of his._

_I brought these articles with me to breakfast. Read them all in front of Ms. Breton. I think she's enjoying the attention._

_S.S._


	28. The Accusation

A/N: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

"Could you put that away please?" she murmured, still reading over the committee chair's notes from the last meeting. She had secured a grant which would help repair damaged education systems in countries with high debt relative to their GDP. France qualified for it and now the International Wizengamot was thinking of pulling funding. She had today's meeting to assuage any of their concerns and to persuade them not to.

Charles balked, "My fork?" His eggs fell off the edge of it.

"Not you," she said, "him."

Severus Snape sat beside her, reading about seven different journals and newspapers, remarking loudly to himself every time he saw her mentioned in an article.

"Well here she is again," he'd marvel with great sarcasm. "She is such a wonderful asset to the international community… sleeping with Lucius Malfoy for her country. Now _that_ is commitment."

There was the loud, crinkly noise of a newspaper being folded. "You're talking to me?" A sneer came from the same direction.

"Yes, could you put that away? Normally I'd tolerate your immature little snide remarks about me but I need to concentrate. So I'm asking nicely. Could you please put that away?"

"Well, Ambassador, I think not. I'm vile and petty and I will continue to be vile and petty regardless of what you think of me."

"You don't understand what's… what's the phrase? Got my pants in a twist?"

Charles snorted. "Knickers, Marcy, knickers."

"You don't understand what's got my knickers in a twist. You don't understand why I dislike you. You think that while you've been generally disagreeable and paranoid you haven't been all that awful to me. This is true. But this does not excuse the fact that you are a Death Eater, one with no excuse for the things he has done. You are not a changed man."

Snape's face was twisted with disgust, as he took a sip of his tea his face untightened and he looked down at his newspapers once more. He was angry with her and hurt. That was one thing about him she couldn't decide if she admired or disliked. For his staid exterior, his emotions raged and fell with force. One moment he could be calm and in control and the next angry, but he never lost his control on the outside. LeMontre told her one day that Snape had been a spy in the war and this is how he escaped imprisonment. It made sense. The man was like a vault. If he knew she could feel his emotions, he would probably throw a fit.

"Hmm, 'Ambassador Breton Votes Against Anti-Muggle Legislation'… I wonder if this makes her liberal or conservative."

"That's actually a debate currently ongoing in certain spheres," Charles said brightly. "It used to be liberalist during Britain's Dark War and then for about a decade it was considered a conservative, very bad view. Now it depends. It's to the point now where passing anti-Muggle legislation doesn't make you a bad person it just makes you someone who wants to keep the wizarding world a secret."

Silence. Marcelle pursed her lips; Snape was amused. Snape found Charles stupid, therefore amusing.

"So, uh, what's that article about? Marcelle bashing Malfoy's idea to pieces? I mean, Marcelle, you need to be careful. If you're going to use him to get to Fudge –"

"Ah, so that's why you go to dinner with him," Snape said silkily. "He's a former Death Eater too, you know. I don't see you taking a high and mighty tone with him. A tone, I might add, that is very, _very_ _annoying_."

"He's already explained to me he had no idea what he was doing. I mean, he was under the influence of the –"

"Imperius Curse?" Snape rolled his eyes. "Oh yes of course he told you that."

"A good imperius is hardly detectable."

"Discussing Unforgivables at breakfast, Breton?" Moody passed the High Table and took the seat next to Snape. "Snape can teach you a thing or two about the Cruciatus, let me tell you."

"Can he?" Marcelle raised an eyebrow at Snape. "Again, I'm not surprised at all."

"You're right about a good imperius being hardly detectable. But there are… little things." Moody shoved a piece of buttered toast into his mouth.

Snape cleared his throat, stood and abruptly left, leaving his tea and a half-empty plate.

"My goodness, Professor Moody," she chuckled, "I'd been trying to get him to leave for the past ten minutes and you get him to leave before you'd even finished a slice of toast."

"He's afraid of me. So is Karkaroff. They feel guilty, the bastards. Do you know much about the Unforgivables, Breton? A strange question, I reckon, but…" he chuckled grumblishly.

"Oh not really. I have no interest in that sort of thing. No interest in dark magic either. I used to work with Muggles, actually."

"Oh really?"

"Yes when I first start my career in the government the only open position was through the Muggle-Wizard Relations Department in 1973. I lived among them as one of them for a year. It was during that year that I realized they aren't so different from us as one would think. This is not a view I express often, but, you know…"

"You're very different from your mother, Breton." His blue eye lingered on her hands.

"Oh?" She always enjoyed hearing about what others thought of her mother. Her mother had been one of the loveliest people she had ever known – intelligent, coquettish, outspoken. She was like a spark of light in the dark.

"You're much more of a straight arrow." He drank from his canteen. He was unhappy, disappointed. Maybe angry.

"That indeed describes Marcelle. You're very black and white; I always find you absurdly obtuse yet refreshing in a profession of shades of gray."

"Hmm. I need to go do some reading. Hogwarts has such a nice collection on wizard law."

She went to the library. It was empty except for the librarian and Miss Granger who took a seat in the back corner by the Mind and Emotion section, which was adjacent to a particular section of wizarding law.

She was looking for something on education grants bestowed by the International Wizengamot in the past. If she could just find an instance where education funding in one country benefitted another in some manner perhaps the committee would reconsider pulling funding.

"Ambassador, are you looking for something in particular? I use a lot of law books for some of my history papers."

Breton looked over her shoulder. It was Miss Granger. "Oh, I- no."

"I'm Hermione Granger. Harry Potter said you yelled at Professor Snape last week for me."

"Oh yes… I did do that. I did." She turned around and shut her eyes. That was a stupid loss of control on her part. When Granger ran past her window, crying her eyes out, those emotions combined with her previously existing dislike of Snape and incredulity that a thirty-four year old man would do such a thing to a child resulted in… her telling Snape off.

"Thank you."

"I hope I didn't make things worse for you."

"No. No, you didn't know. He mainly took it out on Harry in detention." She smiled, her teeth were straight and well-proportioned.

"What a lovely smile, Miss Granger. Again, my apologies. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't apologize, really, I-"

"Don't you little miscreants know there's no talking in the-" Snape cut himself off. "Ambassador Breton. We meet again."

"Finish with your papers?"

"All but one. Apparently you pulled Potter out of class so he could boast about how he's a lonely little orphan who now has a chance to shine. Illegally."

Marcelle faltered. "I pulled him out of class illegally?"

"No, he has a chance to shine illegally because he's technically too young to compete," he snapped.

"Well when you tack on a modifier like that there's bound to be some ambiguity."

"You're not clever. And why aren't you in class, Granger? Complaining to Ambassador Breton about your problems again?"

Granger bowed her head down and walked over to the table to collect her things immediately.

"Class hasn't even started yet," Marcelle muttered. "Don't be mean to her just because I pissed you off."

"Oh I'm not doing it because I enjoy displacing my anger at you on her, I'm doing it because I know it will piss you off. I enjoy that." He paused then smirked in triumph.

"Sadism: Another quality I really admire in a Death Eater."

"_I am no longer a Death Eater_," he hissed.

Marcelle laughed, coldly. "Really? Try telling all the people you killed that."


End file.
